His feeble eyes with ardor yet were strained Upon a yellow parchment dull with age, As, while one lingering ray of life remained, That single ray must shine on Learning's page; And while he lay immersed in study deep, He murmured thus, as one who speaks in sleep:-- "One little hour more, and all is mine! Mine the bright prize so long I've sought in vain! Mine the lost secret, which for countless time Philosophers have labored to regain! Mine wealth, and youth, and joy, and nevermore, O Death! shall I be subject to thy power! "One hour more, and all these golden dreams Which still have cheered me on from day to day, Shall be no more like fleeting radiant beams, Glancing one moment bright, then snatched away; But all my visions, howe'er bright their hue, No more be false, no more be aught but true! "Ye elementary spirits, who so long With ready wiles have baffled all my art One hour more, and I in power strong Shall see ye all in helpless rage depart! At last your devilish malice all o'erthrown, At last the great elixir all my own!" Thus spoke the alchymist; but ruthless Death, Who strikes alike the mighty and the low, And stops the monarch's and plebeian's breath With equal haste, and with the selfsame blow, Had laid his icy hand upon his heart, While bidding him in iron tones "depart!" The lamp burnt lower, still his eye was fixed Upon the parchment, while his trembling hand Within a crucible the compound mixed, With which completed he would soon command Unending treasure, boundless glittering wealth, The priceless draught of endless youth and health. But from his stiffening band the parchment dropped, As from his lips broke forth a hollow moan, The coursing current of his life-blood stopped, His spirit fled just as its task was done! Closing his eyes upon the lifelong strife, He left untouched the sparkling cup of Life. * * * * * THE SONG-BIRDS OF SPRING. BY NORMAN W. BRIDGE. FROM out the airy balcony Of many a sylvan cot and dome, Is poured soul-melting minstrelsy, That cheers my lonely heart and home. Around each warbler's chosen haunt Are heard sweet notes of joy and praise; From fruit-trees comes the robin's chant, And from each bush the sparrow's lays. Amid the poplar's trembling lyre, That o'er the lawn its shadow throws, Rich warblings of a linnet-choir My soul with melody o'erflows; While from a willow waving near, And where the vine its trellis girds, Steals softly o'er the tuneful ear The symphony of yellow-birds.